Dear S.,
This breaks my rule because we met on Twitter,
but the premise is the same: to anyone
I’d miss if I left Facebook, a love letter
arrives by flare from my sappy heart-gun.
I like you because you know about going off.
Your posts and poems take no prisoners
because fuck this culture with its side-mouth cough
when any woman speaks. The world needs listeners.
The world needs your poems, their insolence
of custom. What kind of century is this?
I imagine we’d have been burned, or dissidents,
in another time. Is that fact curse or kiss?
Just: thanks. A simple thing to count five feet,
another to share shoes, pack the same heat.
xo S
**
another writing mom 